


Empty Outline

by wrack



Series: Story ARC [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: (Alpha ARCs speak some Mando’a), A Whole Back Catalogue's Worth of Issues, Anger, Child Soldiers, Clone Troopers Speak Mando'a (Star Wars), Gen, Kamino, Kamino-Typical Ethics Violations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:34:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27168697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrack/pseuds/wrack
Summary: Alpha-71 just wants Jango Fett to notice him. Even if it's for the wrong reasons.
Series: Story ARC [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1983127
Comments: 4
Kudos: 22





	Empty Outline

**Author's Note:**

> Additional content notes: implied experimentation on children, brief mention of animal experimentation. #littlekaminothings

71 was halfway through cleaning his knife for the third time when 70 burst out with, “Where did the Prime go, anyway?”

He’d broken the Alpha code of pre-mission silence, but nobody seemed to care. The six of them had been promised a combat sim, one of the good ones with programmable terrain and realistic storm effects. What they’d got instead was half an hour and counting in a featureless ready room. For once, 71’s ever-present eagerness to pick a fight with 70 took a back seat to his other frustrations. “Dunno. Maybe little baby Boba needed his afternoon nap or something.”

“Shhh,” 72 said, sounding genuinely alarmed. “You’ll get us all in trouble.”

 _“’You’ll get us all in trouble,’”_ 71 mimicked. He tossed the cloth away and stood up, sliding the knife back into its sheath with a mock-carelessness he knew would get everyone’s attention. Any one of 71’s other brothers would have been on his feet at that, but 72 didn’t move. He sat there like he’d just found out his number was on next cycle’s cull list, not a spark of fight in him. _That’s what I’d look like if I ever got scared._ The thought infuriated 71. “Sure they knew what they were doing when they tossed you in with A-batch? Maybe we should call you CT-72 instead. You’d fit right in with those little meat droids.”

He knew he’d misstepped before he even got to the end of the sentence. 68 hissed in disgust. Even 72 rallied, lifting his chin to glare. But it was 70 who said, with quiet fury, “You’re way out of order, 71. Just like always.”

71 couldn’t back down now without a catastrophic loss of face, but standing his ground might lead to a confrontation even he wasn’t sure he could handle. There was a sour taste in his mouth when he said, “I know they’re important too, but they – we’re not the same. They don’t know how to think for themselves. That’s why the Republic needs us.” He chanced a look around the room. Nobody seemed convinced. “They’re docile.”

After a long pause, 69 ventured, “What does that mean?”

If he was honest, 71 wasn’t sure how the unfamiliar Tipocan word would translate into Basic. He’d overheard a couple of techs discussing their next batch and made a guess based on context. That was a good enough position to argue from. “It means they’re weaker. Less skilled at fighting.”

“They’re still our brothers. _Vode an,_ remember?” For all its softness, 67’s voice rang out as clear as the early morning bell. His habitual quiet made him sound much louder when he did speak up. “You’re supposed to feel it, not just sing it.”

The general murmur of agreement made it plain 71 was outvoted. His whole body was a fist, clenched up tight and furious under their smug, judgemental gazes. As if he wasn’t just putting into words what they all thought! A-batch might have been made from the same base material as the regular CTs, but their shared genetics didn’t make them equals. That was as self-evidently wrong as a brother claiming to be just as important as Jang’alor. He wanted to go for a run, punch something breakable, load his weapon with AA rounds and fire it at the biggest, meanest target he could find – but none of those could be done in this little room, not without serious consequences. Why hadn’t the sim started yet? He longed for a right angle or two, anything to break up the blank white curves of the chamber. It felt like he was trapped inside one of the mysterious eggs that sometimes appeared on his meal tray, eggs he was sure couldn’t have come from any sea creature. His eyes ached. 69’s voice cut through it all. “Except the RCs.”

“Yeah!” 68 said, with evident relief. “Imagine needing four men to do one ARC’s job. Weak.” He made a rude gesture for emphasis, the same one they’d all seen Sergeant Tenau use behind the back of a tech who’d been needling her for years. None of them were quite sure what it meant, but it got the point across well enough. “I heard they don’t even choose what to call themselves half the time. Their trainers do it. No wonder they’ve all got those stupid number nicknames like Nines and Sev and – I don’t know – Twofer.”

“No-one would let himself be called Twofer. Not even a RC.” 70 had his obnoxious _thinking_ face on. “We should get on it, this name thing. If the RCs and CTs are – I mean, we’re supposed to be the independent ones, right?” That last was said with a twist of irony. 71, who’d been starting to relax, tensed up harder than before. He’d punch the self-satisfaction right out of 70, see how the shabuir felt about throwing those quick little sideways glances his way then…

68, who was good at spotting danger, grinned that easy grin of his and said, “69’s going to want to pick a name, stat.”

“Don’t even start.” 69’s attitude was more resigned than defiant. They’d been here countless times before. “You and 70 – either one of you could’ve been me, you know.”

Sometimes, 70 pretended to be above this particular line of banter. Today, he said, “But we weren’t.”

“Yeah, unlucky.” 68’s glee at having secured backup was palpable. “If you choose a good enough one, maybe we’ll all forget what you’re really called.”

“He can’t get rid of it,” 71 said, picking up the well-worn thread in spite of himself. “It’ll be tattooed under his skin forever.”

Waiting so long must have eroded 69’s judgement along with his patience. He shot a glare around the room, which was the second worst course of action he could have gone for. When the laughter died down, he growled, “Are you done?”

That was the worst. Spurred on by prior successes, 68 said, “Imagine you’re a Jedi officer pinned down in the field and you ask command who’s coming to pull you out and they say it’s _Alpha-69_ –“

That set them all off again. Even 72 was snickering now. Like Tenau’s rude gesture, none of them knew quite what was so funny about the number in question. The real meaning didn’t matter. It was something they could laugh at together, almost as rich a mine for humour as the RCs and their general hopelessness. Then 70 went and ruined it all by saying, “I’m serious, though. I thought of one last night.” He paused, no doubt hoping to build tension. “Senn.”

Losing interest in the joke, 68 gave him a suspicious look. “That’s not just ‘seven’ said fast, is it?”

“It’s Mando’a.” Another beat. “Means ‘flight’.”

“You sure? Doesn’t sound like the regular word for ‘flight’ at all.”

“It’s got to mean something like that, right? It’s in all the flying words. Bird, starship, missile – and jetpack.” On the last word, his mouth curved upwards a little. Was he watching 71 out of the corner of his eye? He had to be. He had to be thinking about last week’s jump-pack exercise, how he’d beaten them all to the pinnacle and turned around just in time to watch 71 fumble a leap that should have been easy. Humiliation burned through 71, as acute as it had been after he slid all the way back down to the ground. 70’s smile grew wider. He was talking again, off on one about his precious name - but his eyes kept flicking back to rest on 71. Sandwich numbers knew each other better than anyone. There was no way the images playing out in his head weren’t also on display in 70’s.

The hilt of his knife was still warm. He toyed with it, moving it back and forth in the holster, and thought about how his brothers would react if he drew it now. Just for show, of course; he didn’t want to hurt 70. All he wanted was to wipe that stupid smirk off his face, watch the others’ laughter turn to respect - or fear. As near as he could tell, the difference was academic.

The hatch light flashed red, and 71 dropped his hands back to his knees with a groan that almost everyone else echoed. He started to grumble a curse under his breath, then bit the tip of his tongue when the outside door hissed open.

“Sim’s cancelled,” Jang’alor said, sticking his head into the chamber. The rest of his body did not follow. “Go back to the rec room. Tani Re will be there shortly to retask you.” 70 opened his mouth, but whatever words he’d been shaping collapsed into a silly, fishlike _o_ when Jang’alor fixed him with a look. After holding him pinned for a few seconds, he turned. “Not you, Alpha Seventy-One. You’re with me.”

It was never a good sign when the Prime used your full designation. 71 could hear him spelling the digits out. In spite of himself, he felt fizzy with excitement; _he_ would be the one following in Jango Fett’s footsteps while the others settled in for another long, tedious wait. They exited in single file. His mood plummeted again as soon as he saw who was waiting outside.

“Say hello, Boba,” Jang’alor said, in Mando’a. He didn’t sound too pleased. Maybe his little shadow had tagged along without asking.

Boba took his hands out of his oversized pockets and muttered, “Hello.” His hair was a mess, falling across his face in thick, heavy waves. Why was he even allowed to wear it like that? Long hair was just another vulnerability for enemy combatants to exploit, if it didn’t get in your eyes and throw off your aim first. 71 resisted the urge to rub a hand over his own shorn scalp. Part of him wanted to find out what would happen if he refused to join in his brothers’ uneven chorus of _su’cuy gar_ , but Jang’alor’s expression told him he was already hip-deep in shit and sinking. The words tasted bitter. Boba didn’t seem to appreciate them very much; when he glanced up, his usual scowl was in place. Hard to blame him, 71 supposed. He had to know nobody wanted him around.

Jang’alor nodded at the others, which was as good as a verbal dismissal. As they left, each one of them tried to glance back over his shoulder with the greatest possible economy of movement. It was almost funny, watching them. If 71 hadn’t been busy imagining the flurry of gossip that would break out as soon as they got back to Rec 1, he might even have laughed. As it was, he felt a shadow of the same wild impulse that had driven him to reach for his knife. He could sense Boba’s eyes on him. The brat was half his size and twice as brazen, secure in his status as a child under Jango Fett’s protection. _Vode an_ … but Boba wasn’t a brother, never mind that seeing his face always made 71 feel like he’d stepped back in time just to get a bad haircut.

Nobody ever got a warning when Jang’alor was about to rush off somewhere. Today was no different; he started for the walkway ramp at a clip, his pace betraying a level of irritation that made 71’s stomach clench. Once he’d caught up, he noted with some pride that it only took him two strides to match Jang’alor’s one. Boba, on the other hand, had to run to keep up – or he would have done, if Jang’alor hadn’t noticed him struggling and slowed his own pace to match. The tight feeling in 71’s gut turned into an ache. He made it onto the walkway before either of them, a minor bit of insubordination the line of Jang’alor’s mouth told him had been noted. It was difficult to make himself care.

When Jang’alor’s gaze shifted from 71 to Boba, his jaw relaxed. There was a sickening soft look on his face. “Go on home, Boba.”

For a moment, Boba looked like he might protest. Jang’alor raised his eyebrows at him, a gesture that would have spooked any one of the Alphas into compliance. It was undercut by the gentleness in his voice when he said, “I won’t be long.” That earned him a brief smile, somehow out of place on Boba’s perpetually sullen features. He spun on his heel and darted off down the walkway; the Kaminoan workers lining the walls didn’t so much as look up from their terminals. Running in the corridors was another infraction any trooper would have been reprimanded for. It would make sense if Boba were the Prime’s own mongrel child, but he was no better than the rest of them. His delayed growth was the only real difference, and that just meant he was still a little baby while the Alphas were as good as twelve years old. If the Republic dropped them on a battlefield tomorrow, they’d be ready to go. Boba probably wasn’t even strong enough to heft a deecee.

As soon as Boba was out of earshot, Jang’alor spared a glance along the corridor and said, very quietly, “What am I going to do with you, eh?” He was speaking Mando’a again. A part of 71 thrilled to hear it, even if it was just an extra precaution against listening ears. “You think you’re pretty tough, don’t you? Pretty fierce little warrior, pushing your brothers around.”

The back of 71’s neck felt hot. Nobody escaped attention for long on Kamino, but there was a difference between knowing that and _knowing_ the Prime had seen him embarrass himself. It made him think of the tank in Sela Haun’s lab, the one he’d taught himself to focus on every time he needed a distraction. He had its contents memorised; twelve identical, saw-toothed sea creatures, grown large enough that they were pressed up against the glass walls. There were cameras positioned at varying points around the tank – ongoing observation, Sela Haun’s assistant had said, there to record how the environment affected their behaviour. Sometimes, 71 thought, his makers were so clever they missed the obvious. He’d watched countless fights break out while he sat shivering on Sela Haun’s table, struck by how well the fish made use of their limited space when they were out to hurt each other.

With a tiny chill, he realised Jang’alor was waiting for a response. Worse, he was waiting for a response in Mando’a. 71 understood the language well enough, but expressing himself in it was a different matter. The dormitory creole he’d grown up speaking was a mishmash of Basic, Mando’a, Tipoca dialect, and the bounty hunter’s argot their trainers weren’t supposed to use around them; there was very little relationship between it and the rolling, fluid speech Jang’alor exchanged with Boba on a regular basis. The thought of stumbling over words Boba had likely been able to pronounce before he could walk made 71’s throat close up. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to force them out at all.

But he’d have to try. “It’s 70, sir. I – I don’t like him.”

“Why?”

Adrift at the limits of his vocabulary, 71 foundered. Jang’alor’s sigh was almost inaudible, but it still hit like a jab to the ribs. “You can answer me in Basic, if you want.”

It should have come as a relief. 71’s face was hot with shame; his halting speech felt like another test he’d failed at. If he were 70, he’d have found some way around the language barrier. “He just gets on my nerves, sir. I’m sick of having to work with him all the time.”

“Really.”

The lack of inflection meant 71 was treading on dangerous ground, but he couldn’t help himself. “I don’t see why we have to do all these team exercises in the first place. We’re meant to run solo missions, sir. That’s why we were made.”

“Yes, 71, I know. I was there.” That one was sharp enough to silence any vod who happened to be in hearing range. “When I break up fights among your brothers, it’s usually a toss-up who started it. If you’re involved? There’s never any question. You’ve got a real mean streak.” It didn’t quite sound like a condemnation. “Why are you so damn angry all the time?”

Hard enough to recall what rage felt like in the moment, never mind why it had come over you in the first place. Like the memory of pain, it slid away as soon as he tried to grasp it. “I don’t know.” _There_ was a Mando’a phrase he remembered.

He was expecting another sigh. Instead, Jang’alor said, “You lot scare the hell out of the Kaminoans, you know.”

“Sir?”

“One hundred little copies of me, no tweaks or restraining bolts. I don’t know what they thought they’d be getting. Even a tame jai’galaar’ll turn on you if you mess it around enough.” 71 resolved to look the unfamiliar word up as soon as he had an opportunity, but Jang’alor must have read the lack of understanding in his eyes. “Shriek-hawk.”

“Like jaig _-_ eyes?”

The faint lines around Jang’alor’s own eyes crinkled up a little. A real smile, not the quick flash of teeth he reserved for people he wasn’t fond of. “Exactly like.”

 _Take that,_ Senn. The warmth of Jang’alor’s approval was almost enough to soothe the sting of everything else he’d said.

“And you’re right.” Those three words came as enough of a shock that it was difficult to process the rest of what he was saying. “You weren’t made for teamwork, or for a lab on stilts in the middle of the ocean. You’ve got more of me in you than any of the others do.” The intensity of his gaze made it easy for 71 to pretend _you_ was meant for him alone. Jang’alor’s next words shattered the illusion. “I had to learn to get along with people, even to lead them – and so will all of you. Alpha-batch are supposed to set an example. You might have to pass your ARC training on to other clones.” He used the Basic word for that. 71 wondered if Mando’a had a name for what they were. Then a more pressing thought occurred to him. ARCs were created, not taught: that had been the earliest lesson of his childhood, unspoken and unquestioned. If anyone could become one, where did that leave the Alphas?

Before he could work out how to phrase his objection to the idea, a shout rang out along the corridor. “Dad!”

“What is it, Boba?” The annoyance 71 felt was offset by the faint note of exasperation in Jang’alor’s voice. It wasn’t much, but it was there. “What’s going on?”

As uncomfortable as having Boba at his back made him, 71 refused to turn around. A flurry of footsteps, then: “The door’s stuck.”

“Try the secondary code.”

“I _ha-_ ave,” Boba said, the faint whine in his voice extending the word by a whole useless syllable. It set 71’s teeth on edge. How Jang’alor managed to keep his patience listening to that all day long, he didn’t know. “And I tried slicing it. It won’t go.”

For a moment, 71 entertained wild thoughts of getting to follow them back to their quarters. Maybe they’d even let him see inside. When he was younger, he’d imagined Jang’alor’s rooms looking like a mock palace layout they’d all had to memorise; walls within walls, rich tapestries covering hidden panels, luxuries he couldn’t even begin to picture. As much as he knew it wasn’t true, his stomach still dropped when Jang’alor said, “I’ll be back. You just wait here.”

“Yes, sir,” he muttered, after a silence that dragged on far too long. It didn’t matter what he said. With or without his blessing, Jang’alor and his little shadow would go where they wanted – and they did, though not before the former shot 71 a look that needed no interpreting. He shuffled his feet, watching their backs recede. What was he supposed to do now? Anyone might come along and catch him hovering in the observation corridor by himself. A battalion of CTs, maybe, parading along behind their commander; the foolish, abandoned look he couldn’t quite manage to wipe off his face would be a gift to them. Then an even worse thought occurred to him; suppose someone like Sela Haun stumbled across him and thought he was playing truant? There was no Jango Fett around to vouch for his right to be there. Unless the techs…

One of them was watching him.

Knowing it was the wrong move, he took a step back. He couldn’t help it. She might be friendly, but the markings under her eyes reminded him too much of Sela Haun. Whatever her intentions toward him, she was preparing to step away from the terminal. Somehow, 71’s hand had drifted back to his hip. He could almost hear the scraping noise his knife made when unsheathed. Against the corridor’s quiet backdrop, it would sound much louder. An unwelcome thought flashed across his mind: stabbing a wet couldn’t be too different from sticking his knife in a training droid. It’d go in easier, that was all.

Shaking his head a little, he turned and headed for the nearest exit. The dread of waiting outweighed the fear of Jang’alor returning to find him gone.

When he made it to the first crossroads, he started to breathe a little easier. Nobody had followed him. Maybe the Kaminoan hadn’t had any particular interest in him after all. Maybe she’d just wanted to make sure he was all right. He swallowed hard, thinking of the teardrop markings under her eyes and his hand on the knife. Either way, it was for the best that he hadn’t stuck around. If Jang’alor was angry or disappointed… well, he’d weather that when it came down to it. At least it would mean he’d been noticed. Better than getting the look he gave to vode who hadn’t worked hard to make themselves stand out to him, a flat, assessing gaze that said he didn’t think about you much at all. Like you were just a job, ranking below even the cheapest contract on his priority list.

Bringing all his lessons in stealth to bear, 71 edged around the next corner. The quality of light had changed. He blinked, uncomprehending. This new corridor was lined with translucent panels. As much as Kaminoans hated looking out over the water, he couldn’t imagine one of their architects approving the design. If it had been meant for Jang’alor and his Cuy’val Dar to use, they’d missed the mark; nobody had looked through these windows in a while, or even stopped here long enough to give them a good dusting. He wiped at the closest panel with his sleeve, aware all the time that he was piling trouble on top of trouble. Once he’d cleaned off a spot in the middle, he pressed his nose against the glass.

At first, all he could see was a confusing, monochrome blur. Then a streak of lightning shivered across the grey, and the picture outside started to make more sense. The sky was almost identical in colour to the sea, and the clouds came down low enough that some of them seemed to be sinking into it. Only by focusing hard could he draw a line between them. He squinted into the watery dimness, searching for aiwha – or better yet, one of the enormous solo predators that haunted the wingbeats of aiwha pods, lying in wait at a depth their prey could not sink to. Anything the Kaminoans were afraid to give a name to had to be pretty fearsome. Somewhere down below, the waves were breaking themselves against the force-resistant stilts of Tipoca City. The spray never quite reached him.

In defiance of tradition, he knocked on the glass three times. Then he sat down, hands folded neatly in his lap, and waited for the sound of footsteps around the corner.

**Author's Note:**

> I spent forever and a day trying to figure out what the Alphas should call Jango. The only canon I know of is Alpha-17 referring to him as "the Prime Clone" in the comics, and constantly using "the Prime" got awkward after a while. In the end, I went with appending "alor" (boss, leader, captain) to his name as a suffix - that felt like the right level of closeness vs. distance to me.
> 
> Thank you for reading! ♥


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